


we wish we never learned to fly

by Hedylog



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But Mutual Pining, Don't expect any fluff, Heavy Angst, Heavy Drinking, If you take it this way, Implied/Referenced Depression, Implied/Referenced Major Character Death, Love Confession, M/M, Not Getting Together, Song: I Love You (Billie Eilish), Songfic, but it's an open ending actually, s3 fix-it but it actually makes it worse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 23:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19328674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hedylog/pseuds/Hedylog
Summary: Sherlock had always been very successful at breaking John's heart. John thought that, maybe, them parting for the last time wouldn't break it once more, but his best friend decided otherwise.An alternate ending for the tarmac scene where Sherlock doesn't make John laugh.





	we wish we never learned to fly

The world had ended twice, five hours ago.

John had thought, naively, that Sherlock’s departure wouldn’t be the end. He would come back, had he persuaded himself as soon as he heard the sentence. He would come back and they would be friends again and solve cases and-

Then the world shattered. “Who knows?” said Sherlock, and John understood, he understood - or rather, he opened his eyes to the truth. That Sherlock wouldn’t come back. That those were the last words he would ever hear him say. As the universe was crumbling down, he picked up the nearest pieces, gathered them in his arms to try and remodel a life. Not enough for a world, but a life, a little, boring life remained. Sherlock’s death didn’t mean his as well, he had already survived him once, after all. He would live with Mary again, try to forget that she killed his best friend twice, he would raise their daughter and maybe, maybe one day he would be happy at last. Oh, he didn’t dare hope for the same joy that he felt during those years in 221B, but maybe there would be some spark, a ray of light in a world that had gone pitch black again. But Sherlock kept talking, and suddenly there was no future left.

John hid his face in his hands, alone in his darkened living room. All he could see now were Sherlock’s tears, streaming down his face as he had turned away from John and gotten in the plane without a word.

 

_It's not true_

_Tell me I've been lied to_

_Crying isn't like you_

_Oh-oh-oh_

 

Sherlock could barely breathe. The breaking of a heart wasn’t sudden, was he learning as he felt his fall apart slowly, piece by piece - the breaking of a heart took excruciatingly long, and each new crack felt like a dagger in the chest. It was like… waves, waves that hit him every time his mind played this moment again, every time he remembered how he had lowered the walls that protected him, only to be beaten to the ground. What was he thinking, what was he _thinking_? John could have lived. He would have died but John could have lived, John could have taken with him the memory of an unfeeling man, and slowly forgotten him. And suddenly, Sherlock realised that he hadn’t learned anything. That, again, he had been cruel to John.

The sun had set long ago beneath the clouds that he was riding, but he didn’t want to sleep, not yet. He would have time later, all the time in the world, but he wasn’t ready yet to abandon the memory of John.

 

_What the hell did I do?_

_Never been the type to_

_Let someone see right through_

_Oh-oh-oh_

 

John collapsed again in his chair, spilling whiskey on his trousers. He wanted to forget, forget Sherlock’s tears and his words, forget that he even existed. Never had he had the right to be angry more than in that moment, so why wasn’t he shouting, breaking his glass on the floor, overthrowing his chair? Alcohol barely dulled his emotions - his sorrow was far more efficient. Five minutes before he left him forever, John’s whole idea of Sherlock had changed. The man that despised feelings, that was married to his work, the calculating genius vanished before his eyes as three words, three small words that he hadn’t ever dared imagine him say, left his mouth.

Sherlock had been standing straight, his hands behind his back, saying insignificant things because, John knew, he didn’t want to say goodbye. John didn’t either, and yet he couldn’t find the words. There was something, something desperately unspoken that he had buried long ago, but he couldn’t say it now, could he? He couldn’t break Sherlock’s trust minutes before their last goodbye. He couldn’t open again the box where he had locked away his feelings for this ridiculous man, this breathtaking man that saved him a million times and broke his heart a million more. He had grieved, he had smothered the butterflies in his stomach and painted over the red on his cheeks, because he knew that telling Sherlock would have compelled the genius to turn his back on the best friend that he had ever had.

Yet, Sherlock said his name on the tarmac. “There’s something I should say,” he said, and each of the following words was like a bucket full of water poured into a well where he was starting to drown.

“Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.”

An endless silence. There was an unfamiliar vulnerability on Sherlock’s face, and John understood a moment before his friend opened his mouth again. _Don’t, don’t, don’t_ , his mind was screaming, but it didn’t show in his expression, or maybe Sherlock chose to ignore it.

“I love you, John,” said he, John’s name added like an afterthought, like he realised it would be his last chance to hear himself say it.

John felt the blood drain from his face.

“I don’t… I can’t…”

Sherlock’s tiny smile died on his lips. Suddenly there was fear in his eyes, and John wanted him to _stop_ , stop showing him this new side of him that he would never have the leisure to discover.

“I’m sorry, I-

\- Why did you say it?”

John had wanted his voice to be menacing, a low growl like the one he had addressed to Mary in that darkened corridor months ago, but it came out as a plaintive sound. Sherlock seemed confused, confused and pained.

“I… I don’t understand.

\- You’re going to die, Sherlock. Why did you _have_ to say it?”

His voice was breaking. He didn’t want to fall apart, not now, not while Mycroft and Mary were watching them.

 

_Maybe won't you take it back_

_Say you were tryna make me laugh_

_And nothing has to change today_

_You didn't mean to say "I love you"_

_I love you and I don't want to_

_Oh-oh-oh_

 

Sherlock had known for a very long time that he would die with regrets. They had piled up over the years, and during those last days he had studied every single one of them, weighting them to determine which would make his last thoughts more painful, and tried to erase the memory of them. If he had only known that, in his last moments, a new one would have made them all feel insignificant, he might have spent that precious time thinking about John, John’s face, John’s laugh, John’s loving gaze studying him. Sherlock closed his eyes, pressing his fingers to his temples. How could he have been so _wrong_? He knew that John loved him back, he thought, foolishly, that confessing would allow John to grieve him more easily. But he didn’t, and through the fatigue that clouded his mind, Sherlock started to doubt that John had ever loved him. Maybe he had fallen victim to confirmation bias, persuading himself that John’s friendship hid more, terrified of the reality that the only person he had ever loved didn’t share his feelings.

“I thought that you wanted to hear this,” Sherlock said, slowly, as John’s eyes filled with tears and he realised that he had made a mistake.

“That I want- Sherlock, why would I want to hear this?”

Was it that Mary was so near? Never, never had he imagined that John’s words could be so harsh, when this moment would come. He wanted to break down, he wanted to flee, but he did what John was used to, what John wanted him to do, he swallowed his tears and chased the emotion from his face.

“It was… a miscalculation. I’m sorry, John.

\- Was it true?”

Sherlock searched for John’s gaze, searched for a way to show him how honest he was, but his friend had lowered his head. He looked at his hands. They were tightly closed.

“I...

\- Was it true, Sherlock?”

His voice was plaintive again, but he was still avoiding Sherlock’s eyes.

“It was. I love you, and I’m sorry that it took me so long to figure it out.”

He heard John _sniffle_ , and suddenly, John’s eyes were planted in his. Suddenly, Sherlock saw his tear-streaked face.

“We could have…”

John lowered his face again. The end of his sentence never came.

“Do you?

\- Do I what?” answered John, raising his eyes.

“Love me.”

Sherlock waited as John stared at him in silence, seeming lost, heartbroken and _betrayed_. Then he answered, and Sherlock wished he had just turned his back and left.

“I can’t. It’s too late, now.”

 

_Up all night on another red eye_

_We wish we never learned to fly_

_Maybe we should just try_

_To tell ourselves a good lie_

_I didn't mean to make you cry_

 

The room was spinning but it didn’t matter. John was lost in his thoughts, replaying a moment that he so dearly wished he could forget, sinking deeper every second in the realisation that they could have _had it_ , that he hadn’t needed to bury his feelings, that maybe Sherlock wouldn’t have jumped, and Mary wouldn’t have intruded in his life. They had missed it all, so many more years together, a future worth living. Sherlock was flying to his death, knowing nothing of John’s feelings, probably regretting every word he said, since now he appeared capable of regrets, and John couldn’t save him, couldn’t overturn the plane and greet him on the same tarmac with a kiss that he only now, only when it was too late, dared imagine.

“I understand,” said Sherlock, his face closing.

“Do you?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. His hands were behind his back again, his whole body straightening. John’s heart broke again when he realised that all this time, Sherlock had hid from him, Sherlock had never felt comfortable enough to show him that he could be emotional, that he could love. That he loved him. Did Sherlock think that this neutral expression was the reason that John liked him? Did he think that the mere act of showing his feelings, not his disastrous timing, was what caused John to reject him?

Sherlock removed one of his gloves, outstretched his hand and forced a tiny smile.

“To the very best of times, John”

John blinked. That was it, then. Sherlock was flying away, leaving in his wake so many aborted possibilities that only now were revealing themselves. He didn’t want to let him go. It was a childish thought, accompanied by the childish need to feel Sherlock’s arms around him. He buried them, again, and shook Sherlock’s hand. He didn’t want to let go, he didn’t want to, and when Sherlock tried to get his hand back and John refused, his friend teared up.

“I’m sorry, John,” said he, and suddenly his cheeks were damp.

John opened his fingers, and Sherlock turned away. He didn’t miss Mycroft surprise when the man finally saw his brother’s face, Mycroft accusing eyes turning towards him. Sherlock got in the plane, and everything was over.

 

_The smile that you gave me_

_Even when you felt like dying_

 

Out of coyness, Sherlock had never authorised himself to dream a romantic relationship with John, but at the dusk of his life, now that the words had been spoken, he gathered every recollection he had of John touching him and created the feeling of hugging him.

He knew that he should have been angry. At himself for not realising sooner the nature of his feelings for John. At Mycroft for training him to reject emotions. But he was tired, and he didn’t want to waste time. Next to him, his phone was waiting unlocked, displaying John’s words, John’s account of a day that seemed to pertain to another life. John was right, his confession had been too late, years late. It didn’t matter now. He felt John’s arms around him, John’s breath in his neck. His phone screen darkened and turned off.

 

_We fall apart as it gets dark_

_I'm in your arms in Central Park_

_There's nothing you could do or say_

_I can't escape the way I love you_

_I don't want to, but I love you_

 

As he was fading away, a silhouette approached him.

“Sir? It’s your brother.”


End file.
